Behind Pale Eyes
by WhiteWineandBoomboxes
Summary: In a world where eye colour is dictated by human emotion, wounded war hero John Watson meets the enigmatic Sherlock Holmes and finds his own eyes sparking back to life.
1. Chapter 1

In battle most humans eye colour bounced between red and yellow. Flecks of steel gray could range from barely visible to great big splotches that Captain Watson privately thought made the notion of war even more alarming. Most soldiers didn't focus on the eyes, in fact, avoiding the contact was so habitual that John struggled upon returning to civilian life, he was quickly mistrusted and often shunned.

It was subconscious by most, the active effort to avoid eye to eye scenarios wasn't registered whilst they stood face to face, but there was something about John that most people found, uneasy. A lifetime of eye contact ran deep in the human psyche and as more people reacted to this avoidance so Johns own eyes became more and more marbled with the colours of loneliness and depression.

He had thrived in Afghanistan. Known as 'Three Continents Watson', he was one of the few soldiers whose eyes were emboldened by gray and merely sprinkled with the anger and fear of red and yellow. What stood out most, however, was the sparkling thread of purple ribbon that shot through his eyes and complimented the gray perfectly. Adrenaline, excitement. Whilst all soldiers eyes were a mixture of these colours, few thrived on purple and gray the way John did. He may have been a doctor, a damn good doctor, as he was often commended; but it was the flames that pumped through his veins at the sound of gunfire that ensured he kept throwing himself into the most dangerous missions, the heaviest auxiliary.

There were two sides to every battle. Fear and adrenaline. Excitement and loss. Anger. In medical school surgeons explained the clever piece of Darwinism that had evolved over the last few centuries. In the moments before death a humans eyes would turn entirely black, the allowance of privacy during those last emotional moments. History was illustrated and explicit with literature and art that proved that the past had not been quite so pleasant. Humans had become obsessed with final moments, entire lives dedicated to a flicker of emotion. Entire lives destroyed with the knowledge of the pain and horror they saw reflected in another's dying irises. It had been kinder, the surgeons explained, kinder to the human race and therefore natural that gradually blackness had taken over those moments, preventing others from sharing the final horrors.

Every human knew this, and as a doctor John had had lectures upon lectures of information on this topic, hours of learning thrust inside his head. He naively thought he understood, he agreed with evolution as doctors are prone to do. It was a kinder eventuality for all involved. Despite that, all that learning, all that knowledge, couldn't have prepared him for the first time he watched the blackness steal over someone's eyes.

Bill Murray was one of Johns closest friends in Afghanistan, he was the stereotypical soldier - the loud and laughing cliché. They had bonded quickly through training and the strong purple thread weaving its way through Bill's irises almost rivalled Johns own in its vivacity. The irony was that it had been a routine mission. Later John would reflect bitterly that danger had no sense of semantics. After all the ridiculous situations John and Bill had put themselves in together the relative safety of a surveillance trek had been the deciding factor. John had seen death before of course, he was a soldier and had been at war for over a year. The difference was that the nature of his missions didn't lend itself to long-living casualties. Usually death was mercifully quick, and John was disorientated enough to miss the event. Those he was close enough to save he always had done. Always. This earned him another nickname - Saviour Watson. Started as a joke by a man John had clashed with on several occasions it quickly evolved into something more genuine. Men started to request 'missions with Watson', knowing that if anyone could survive when a situation became unsurvivable it was Captain Watson.

John didn't register the explosion. His first clue was the feeling of blood in his mouth and a dull, sharp whistle in his ears. The blast had overturned the truck and John quickly became aware that he was upside down and uninjured for the most part.

His medical instincts had kicked in then and breathing hard he took stock of the situation. The filter of dust and noise impeded his awareness and his ears were still throwing him off course but he knew that of the four who had been in the truck with him two were missing. John knew the other two were dead without question, the reason he knew was obvious, he needed to look no further than their open eyes. He may have not needed to, but instinct is a funny thing. John was human, an extremely human human who could not prevent the call of the dead soldiers names. He had stumbled from the truck then; his need to find the other two overriding the base instinct to hide that lesser men would have heeded. His answer as to what happened to Corporal Perkins was given instantly, and quickly interrupted by a yelp of pain to his right.

Now in his bedsit in Central London John can always pinpoint the moment in his dreams where he wakes up, the sweating and shaking unbearable. Even as he had ran over to Bill and with unerring hands tried to close the wound in his friends stomach he knew; he could tell as the sand beneath them became spilled wine that there was nothing he could do. Murrays eyes met his and the colours clashed. The sickly orange hue sparkled with black for a moment before the colour took over completely and Bills heart thudded to a halt beneath hands that were unable to stop trying to close the gap.

It was the first mission he was a sole survivor of.

Bill Murray's death hadn't affected John. To clarify, Bill Murray's death hadn't affected John anymore than losing a friend normally would, if it were possible to quantify such a thing. It was only two years later in the godforsaken army bedsit that had become his home did he realise how haunted he was by Bills eyes. After his death he had seen countless others lose their lives. The black that stole across their vision in their final breaths had begun to hold a sick sort of fascination for John as he would work desperately to save them, pinpoint the exact moment when he realised he failed.

Armies had codes for years. Every single army personnel knew the crucial ones. there was one in particular that those wounded in action waited for the cry of. 825. Through the pain and the consciousness slipping away, they would sting for this number, hoping without hope to hear 825. It meant that they, in that moment at least, were not going to die. That their eyes had not yet flashed blackness across them.

John registered three things the moment he was shot. The blinding, searing white hot pain that enveloped his left shoulder, the thudding of his heart tripling in speed, and moments later the shout of a relieved commander.

"825! Waston, you're an 825."

Please God, let me live.


	2. Chapter 2

John wasn't quite sure why he had decided to go walking in the park. All he knew was that if he stayed for one more moment in that claustrophobic room he'd start throwing chairs.

The soreness in his leg was akin to an itch that couldn't be scratched. It throbbed in a different way to his shoulder and every step he took sent a small flare of pain up his body. It's not that John was in his own world so much as he paid no attention the present one surrounding him. Plus, it had been so long since he'd talked to anyone except his therapist that he could be forgiven in not hearing his name being called twice from behind him.

"John! John Watson!" He turned to face a man whose shirt strained at the waist, hastily tucked into cheap, high-street work trousers. Despite the unthreatening air John was unable to prevent the initial shot of wariness he knew now was a leftover reaction.

"Stamford. Mike Stamford, we were at Barts together?"

"Yes sorry. Yes, Mike." Recognition faltered through and John shook his old school friends hand, careful to ensure it was his right so Mike wouldn't feel the tell-tale tremor.

"Yeah I know, I got fat" Stamford chuckled.

"No, no" John remembered how Mikes eyes used to look. They had always been friendly, mottled with what scientists commonly called the 'warmer' colours. The silver and gold of love and companionship had complimented the softer green and blue hues of intelligence and geniality.

"I heard you were abroad somewhere, getting shot at. What happened?"

"I got shot." His look was uncomfortable, when he finally risked a glance at Mike's eyes he was unsurprised to find the colours had merely deepened with time. His old school friend guarded his expression carefully but John saw the look of surprise and pity that quickly flashed across Mike's expression. It was a look John was growing accustomed to, he knew how much his eye colour had changed. With nothing to keep them there the purple and gray had faded leaving behind clashing midnight blue with streaks of orange and the painful brown of loneliness.

"Coffee?" asked Mike.

It was ironic, John mused, that the colour denoting happiness was also a signifier of unhappiness. Yin and yang. The darker the blue the deeper the sadness ran. John was one of the humans that didn't enjoy his emotions on display as was the case in their species. It was a blessing, and a curse, he supposed, that an emotion had to be felt deeply for the colours to resonate rather than flicker. He was infinitely grateful that human irises were usually about the size of a penny, only to the extremely observant were more than three or four colours obvious.

Mike had been speaking, John realised, something about London. He couldn't quite stem the bitterness that welled up and his reply came out more snappily than he intended.

"Can't afford London on an army pension."

"Ah, and you couldn't bear to be anywhere else," said Mike jovially "that's not the John Watson I know."

"I'm not the John Watson you-" John bit off suddenly but it was too late and now a heavy uncomfortable atmosphere hung in the air.

"Harry couldn't help?" Mike ventured. "Or a flatshare?"

At Mike's first suggestion John had sniffed, at his second he couldn't help the snort of derision and disbelief that escaped.

"C'mon. Who'd want me as a flatmate?"

Mike said nothing but his smile was enigmatic.

"What?"

"You're the second person to say that to me today."

John both hated and chased the feeling of interested that ran through him.

"Who was the first?"

John had been surprised to find himself at St. Barts - his old medical school, and even more surprised when Mike had led him down to a quieter part of the hospital not too far from the morgue.

"Listen," Mike stopped a few feet from a pair of double doors. "I should warn you about something before you go in."

"What?" John felt the trepidation and quelled it before the emotion could reflect.

"He's got a bit of...well, a condition." Mike explained reluctantly.

"A condition?"

"Just, don't mention his eyes." With that bizarre warning Mike walked through the door, holding it open for John to limp in after him, his leg still protesting from his earlier walk.

The man bent over a microscope was not unassuming. His posture, even in the depths of his experiment was perfectly straight, his hair neat in its messiness and his suit obviously hand tailored. Despite the obvious wealth nothing stood out to John as particularly bizarre or remarkable.

"Mike, can I borrow your phone? There's no signal on mine." His voice was unusual, John allowed. A far deeper timbre than was common sung from his throat but it wasn't until John offered his own phone after Mikes refusal to the man that he finally realised what his friend had been talking about. Their gaze met for a split second as John gave him his mobile and by the slight widening of both men's eyes neither had expected what they had seen.

His eyes were melted mercury, swimming grays and greens. They made no sense. Of course all humans had a swirl of colours, background emotions that tossed and changed, but there was dominance, splotches of strong emotions. This man, his eyes were a hurricane of muted colours, nothing stood out and nothing could be read.

"Afghanistan or Iraq?" The stranger asked.

"Sorry, what?" John was more than a little floored by the question. Before he could register however, the man was speaking again.

"How do you feel about the violin?"

John couldn't help but repeat himself. "I'm sorry, what?"

"I play the violin when I'm thinking. Sometimes I don't talk for days on end." The man glanced at him. "Would that bother you? Potential flatmates should know the worst about each other. Got my eye on a nice little place in central London. Together we ought to be able to afford it." He spoke quickly, no words wasted, as he handed John his phone back and shrugged on his coat. "We'll meet there tomorrow evening; seven o'clock. Sorry – got to dash. I think I left my riding crop in the mortuary."

John bristled.

"Is that it?"

"Is that what?" His eyes widened innocently and John felt a mix of exasperation and amusement.

"We've only just met, and now we're going to go look at a flat?"

"Problem?" He was smirking, John began to suspect the wide-eyed innocence was just an act.

"We don't know a thing about each other; I don't know where we're meeting; I don't even know your name."

His eyes flashed and it was only when he stepped closer to John that he refocused on the impossible irises.

"I know you're an Army doctor and you've been invalided home from Afghanistan. I know that your therapist thinks your limp's psychosomatic – quite correctly, I'm afraid. I know you're a brave man who is bored of civilian life and I know that in the time we've been talking shades of pink have appeared in your upper irises. That's quite enough to be going on with don't you think?"

Before John could react - not that he thought in that moment that he could - the man had swept out of the room.

"Oh." The curls reappeared briefly. "The name is Sherlock Holmes and the address is 221B Baker Street. Afternoon." With a wink that those eyes made alluring even if that hadn't been Holmes' intention, he left as quickly as he reappeared giving John the impression he had just been winded two feet from the finish line.

He didn't speak for a moment, but when he recovered himself well enough, he looked in the nearest glass cabinet. He was almost pressing his nose against it before he could see the pink Sherlock Holmes had been talking about - tiny and barely visible dots. Mike cleared his throat and John, chuckling with embarrassment straightened up.

"Yeah," said Mike, "he's always like that."

John still wasn't sure if he wanted to be there even as he stepped out of the taxi to see Sherlock Holmes standing in the doorway.

"Ah, Mr Holmes."

"Sherlock, please."

The shook hands and avoided eye contact. John wanted to see those eyes again with a craving that not quite scratched the surface of consciousness. As instinct so often does with humans though, it won out and John looked at Sherlock's nose instead.

The flat and the landlady seemed equally bizarre and pleasing, although the mess left something to be desired. The pink streaks of curiosity that had remained part of Johns appearance since his first meeting with Sherlock were only aided by the fact he had no clue what to make of this man. The mess that John soon discovered was Sherlock's own only added to the unconventional portrait he had been involuntarily creating.

"Oh go on, I know you're dying to ask." Sherlock interrupted his internal musings.

"What? I-" John was visibly startled.

"Oh don't be so obvious." Sherlock scorned and flung up a hand impatiently. "The eyes! I know you're curious, everybody always is. People are so dull." He spoke quickly and although John was unwillingly to admit it, he was getting more interested in this eccentric man by the moment.

"Yes alright," he allowed. "I'm a doctor for God's sake, of course I want to know."

"Genetic mutation." Sherlock waved his hand again before stuffing both in his suit pockets. John was forcefully reminded of a sulking child. "Boring. Doctors were fascinated of course. To my knowledge - and my knowledge is superior - I am the only known human with this condition in the living world."

As Sherlock had been speaking John had sat down to avoid leaning on his cane and now looked at him with interest. "But, and I don't mean to be rude, but what exactly is the mutation? And how haven't I heard of you?"

Sherlock was still half turned to the window but he smirked at the second question.

"Unlike the rest of the human race I remain an enigma. My eyes are merely colours, they flicker and change but not in any way like the bright colours you're acclimatised to. High-functioning sociopath. My emotions remain hidden."

"But that's amazing." John blurted. He chose to step over the sociopath comment for now. "Absolutely brilliant! They look-I mean, you look-" he faltered. In truth Sherlock's eyes were incredibly enticing, not being able to understand the obviously brilliant brain behind them only added to their mysteriousness. He swallowed, a bit not good to be so enraptured by someone he just met.

"That's not what people usually say." Sherlock had turned to regard him. John wasn't used to reading faces but he could have sworn that mixed in with mild surprise he saw a flash of something more open.

"What do they usually say?" John wasn't sure he wanted to know the answer.

"Unimportant." Sherlock muttered.


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: Hey guys, have to say I'm amazed that I have followers and reviews already on my first ever story here! Thank you so much, I really really beyond appreciate it and love reading your comments. Any constructive criticism is welcome, this chapter was hard for me as I don't read a lot of crime fiction and I hope I did Sherlock's deductive skills at least a modicum of justice. Thank you for reading and sticking by me so far!**

* * *

A bang downstairs and a gravelly voice uttering 'morning' could be heard before somebody started on the stairs, not waiting for Mrs Hudson's reply. A man with a young body and old hair appeared on the landing with eyes that shot straight to Sherlock, John had the distinct impression the guy wasn't even aware of his presence.

"We're stumped Sherlock, will you come?" The tone held a note of desperation.

"What is it?" He replied, turning back to the window disinterestedly.

"Girl in an alleyway-" the other began but was quickly cut off.

"No. No!" Sherlock half-shouted. "Interesting cases, interesting cases Lestrade!" his hands were out of his pockets again, gesticulating wildly. "A girl in an alleyway? Dull. 3 out of 10 at most, surely even the half-wits you employ can handle that?"

"Yes alright, but-"

"Locked doors Lestrade! Give me locked doors, not 'girl in alleyway'" as he said the last part he put on a ridiculous mocking voice and John smothered a smile.

"I know. I know!" The other mans patience, John was to presume, had run its course and he had tired of being cut off. "It's the girl though Sherlock. There's something off about the way she's positioned, something weird. It looks wrong."

Something Lestrade had said had caught Sherlock's interest, John could tell. It was only there for half a second but he caught a half smile flash across his face, wrinkling the pale skin.

If John was entirely honest with himself he would admit the pink in his eyes had probably grown and was alive with interest as he watched the exchange. He had deduced Sherlock was some kind of, police helper, fairly quickly and the amount of trust this Lestrade bloke evidently placed in him was a little exciting. John banished the stab of bitterness that accompanied that thought. It was not Sherlock's fault he himself had become relegated to uselessness.

Mrs Hudson had climbed the stairs whilst the men were talking and she now bustled around the tiny kitchen. John suspected her cleaning was in part to eavesdrop on the conversation and smiled, for all his appearance of disdain and aloofness this Sherlock seemed to make strong friends.

"Not in the police car, I'll follow in a cab," he was saying and John definitely saw it that time. The gleam of excitement. He was confused by it, unsure of how he could see the emotion. The younger man's eyes hadn't changed so how, or where did the knowledge of Sherlock's badly contained glee come from? He barely had time to wonder before the police officer was speaking again.

"Thank you" Lestrade said exhaustedly, turning back down the stairs.

He was barely out of sight before Sherlock couldn't contain himself. The man actually jumped for joy, John noticed in wonderment, before bouncing over to Mrs Hudson and placing an enthusiastic kiss on her cheek. John felt a glimmer of satisfaction at correctly identifying Sherlock's mood.

"Look at you all excited," Mrs Hudson's tone was more fond than admonishing as she stroked his arm. "It's not right."

Sherlock scoffed and turned away before grabbing a thick, dark belstaff and scarf from beside the door.

"Who cares about right Mrs Hudson? Don't wait up, the game is on!" With that he swirled and started down the stairs. John had sat amused throughout this demonstration but as he saw the other man departing his smile faded and he could not help but hope his jealously wasn't reflected.

Sherlock reappeared tying his scarf.

"Well?" He said impatiently. John looked around him.

"Well what?" he asked defensively. Sherlock rolled his eyes, but his lips twitched.

"Well, are you coming or not?" John struggled to his feet, heart thrumming and purple painting itself across his vision.

"God, yes."

* * *

They were in a taxi. Where they were going was a matter John was unsure of.

"You don't work for the police." It was more of a statement than a question as John turned to look at Sherlock's cheekbone.

"No" he smiled.

"And you're not a private eye." John continued.

"No."

"So..." He let the word trail away to silence, chapped lips pursed.

"I'm a consulting detective" the deep baritone rumbled. "Only one in the world, I invented the job."

"Which is?" John prompted again impatiently.

"You can see for yourself," Sherlock smirked, "we're here." With a smooth opening of the door he jumped out of the taxi, coat flapping behind him.

"Drama queen." John muttered shoving a few notes at the driver and awkwardly clambering out, leaning on his cane for support.

He made his way over to a wide alleyway swimming with police, forensics and Sherlock. Meeting so many new people at once could be overwhelming for most humans. The influx of emotions, the sudden, intimate knowledge of strangers lives and temperaments. John was studious in his examination of the ground as he made his way over to Sherlock.

"Has the freak got a pet?" His head shot up, the ugly words had unfortunately come out of a pretty mouth but surprise had drawn John's gaze straight to the eyes. He was unsurprised to see the turquoise of malice sparkling in her irises. The fact that it was mixed with browns and greens however, was more unexpected. The dots of red that accompanied the turquoise made it immediately obvious that both colours were directed at Sherlock alone. John would later discover that he was half-right when he met her again and both colours had faded but not vanished.

"Lovely to see you too Sergeant Donovan" Sherlock said coldly, lifting up the tape for John to pass onto the crime scene with him. Donovan gave a sarcastic smile before rolling her eyes and turning away from the two men.

The scene was bizarrely placid. John could see straight away what Lestrade had meant about the body. A young woman, no older than twenty-five, lay broken in death on the floor with pieces of chaos surrounding her.

It was surrealism in an alleyway, John supposed. The girls tanned neck was open and the blood had seeped down to her torso in falls, but it was the way she was positioned that caught attention. Propped up against the wall, her legs were not splayed in front of her, but rather straight as though she was sat resting, her arms neatly folded in her lap. Her eyes were open and as in the past, John could not stop himself from being drawn by the blackness. He had not realised he was staring until Sherlock cleared his throat, reappearing at his shoulder from where he'd previously been examining the auburn-haired body.

John blinked slowly. If not for the blood covering her chest and hands the girl would be sitting, resting and perhaps most disturbingly, smiling. The corners of her lips half turned upward as if she was enjoying non-existent sun. Although not particularly gory there was something about the scene that seemed incredibly, off. John was unsettled, the girl had not died in that position.

"John?" Sherlock rumbled studying him, "would you like to have a look?"

He cleared his throat and glanced at the silver and gold flecked eyes of the Inspector. He rolled his eyes and gestured in a way John chose to take as 'go for it' and he moved to kneel next to the body, laying his cane beside him on the ground.

"So." Sherlock prompted a minute late as John awkwardly clambered back to his feet.

"Umm, yeah" he said, "dead about two hours ago, I'd say. Obviously from the wound to her throat, some sort of sharp, jagged edge. Took her less than a minute to bleed out." He looked around for confirmation and received it in Sherlock's grin and Lestrade's nod.

"Good John, very good. Except you missed nearly everything important." Sherlock said briskly and John frowned, opening his mouth but before he could speak he was cut off.

"The woman is between the ages of twenty three and twenty five and worked in administration. Lately she's been stalked by someone who does photography who she went on a date with three, no, four weeks ago but didn't see again. She started to realise she was being followed about two weeks ago and was on the way home from work when the killer decided to strike. You're looking for a man in their late twenties whose career is a photographer." Sherlock paced as he talked and both Lestrade and John stared open-mouthed as he rattled these 'facts' off more quickly than John could process.

"How could you possibly know all that?" He asked dumbfounded, "there's no way you could see-"

"I could see?" Sherlock scoffed, "as always it is you lot who do not see, do not observe."

"Yes, alright Sherlock" Lestrade interrupted again, rubbing a weary hand across his face. "If you would be so kind as to enlighten us as to how you came to these conclusions, maybe I can continue with my investigation." The tone was clipped and white spots of exhaustion were growing in the Inspector's eyes.

"Good Lord, what is it like to be inside those tiny brains of yours? It must be so relaxing" Sherlock looked at the other two men in fascination, when he was met with blank, unimpressed stares he rolled his eyes. "Oh alright then." He opened his hand to reveal the girls phone that he had clearly pinched off the body when no one was looking.

"Recent texts of two guys about dates, mentions her dating profile - easy to find. Says she works in administration, obvious from her clothing anyway but it is so nice to be proven right - trace this phone number - she went on a date with this guy four weeks ago and he's been stalking her ever since." Sherlock gestured towards the girl: "look at the way she's positioned. John said about two hours, so the sun would have just been going down and she's placed so the light would be hitting her exactly at that time. Her hands are blood-stained, she held them to her throat as she was dying, so she was positioned like this afterwards for the display. If he just wanted her to look neat in death he would have focussed solely on her body and this would be it, but look at the alleyway around her."

John did and saw the usual paraphernalia, broken glass, cigarette butts, old newspaper scraps, but beyond that he thought he was starting to see what Sherlock was talking about.

"It's been designed hasn't it" He looked up questioningly. "The guy placed the rubbish the way he thought would best compliment his photograph?"

"Good, John!" Sherlock beamed. "So, photographer."

"Right." Lestrade clapped his gloved hands. Taking the phone from Sherlock he gave it to a passing Sergeant. "Get a trace on this number. Now." He turned back to the Consulting Detective, "now tell us about the stalking."

Sherlock knelt beside the body again. "Signs of agitation, bitten nails and skin, hair worn slightly thinner on one side. Could be nerves or a condition but it's not, this is recent. Longer term there would be scars around the fingertips from prolonged biting, hair would be noticeably thinner rather than slightly worn, and it's stuck under her nails which if biting was a common habit wouldn't be long enough for that to happen."

He picked up the girls left foot, running his hand along the sole of the shoe. "It's slight, but the left sole is more worn down than the right, the texture is slightly swirled and on the left only, suggesting she frequently spun round on one foot to look behind her. Clearly these are work clothes, and shoes, so this usually happened on her way home, this also explains why she was found on a route different to the one she would normally take back to her place. Conclusion? She was being followed."

John was open-mouthed. He was beyond speechless, he was amazed, he was astounded, he was...mildly aroused, he realised with a start.

"That was unbelievable." He breathed.

Sherlock spun round.

"What?" He stalked closer so he was almost nose to nose with John who couldn't help himself, he found himself captured by Sherlock's eyes again instantly. They were different to earlier, a less distracted part of his bran informed him. The gray was more prominent, there were still no splotches, no definitive colours as there were in others, but they had undeniably changed. John cleared his throat again.

"That, that was unbelievable" he said sincerely, "really amazing Sherlock." Neither man noticed Lestrade looking back and fore between them slightly incredulously.

"Sir." The Sergeant from before reappeared. "We've got a trace on the phone, 158 Lockmore Avenue." Before Lestrade could reply Sherlock moved.

"That's not too far." With a swirl of his coat he had turned and was running. "Come on, John!"

And John was behind him, adrenaline thrumming through his veins, both of them ignoring the call of the Detective Inspector they left standing in the middle of a crime scene.


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: I'm sorry this is late! I have two reasons (excuses). One: I've been quite ill the last week or two and so just going to work has been a struggle, let alone trying to do stuff outside of it. And two: I was majorly unhappy with this chapter. To be honest I'm still not thrilled, I'd like there to be more padding around the dialogue but I'm not sure how else to fix it. As always critique is embraced!**

* * *

John was panting by the time they stopped outside a paint-peeled garden flat. It was also in that moment that he discovered Sherlock Holmes was an expert at breaking and entering.

"Wait out here," Sherlock instructed as he fiddled with the door.

"What? No Sherlock-" John started to protest and Sherlock stood up to face him seemingly ignorant of personal space societal conventions.

"Someone on look out, an outside eye, is very important to me." He gazed earnestly at John for a moment who rolled his eyes but acquiesced the point.

"Alright, but one sound Sherlock, one scuffle, and I'm coming in." He warned, "I mean it."

Sherlock smiled suddenly, "but of course, John." With a wink he turned and pushed the door to the flat open, vanishing inside.

Time moved in bounces and waves for a few minutes before John heard a crash from inside and his heartbeat picked up his legs and he burst through the door.

"Sherlock?"

The room was empty of both humans and human possessions but John didn't pay much attention to this as he caught a glimpse of dark coat flapping over the garden wall and, cursing the detective, set off after it. The wall was not high but John was not as young as he once was and the brick bit into his stomach and arm as he folded himself over, presently encountering an empty back alley.

"Bloody idiot." He muttered, a split second decision was made and John took off to the right. As he neared the end of the alleyway he heard Sherlock's unmistakeable baritone and cautiously flattened himself against the edge of the turn, hearing but not seeing the connecting lane's conversation.

"You don't understand." The voice was shaky and high-pitched, but undeniably male.

"Oh, what?" Sherlock scorned, "you were in love with her? No one else deserved her? Please."

John risked a look, the two men were standing in the middle of the narrow lane in profile, both oblivious to his spying. The young man's hands were shaking and outstretched, a steak knife clumsily pointed towards Sherlock who looked bored of the whole situation. John swore again under his breath, he could see the lack of care and attention Sherlock was paying to the object and quickly summarised that for such a smart man Sherlock could be remarkably stupid.

"The police are on the way you know." the detective said calmly, "it's too late."

"I could still escape." John couldn't see the man's eye colour but his unwashed clothes and dark stubble told him of the tenuous nature of the guy's mental state and suddenly he was far more afraid of the knife than Sherlock. He was grateful that his leather jacket had a dual purpose, one he was both surprised and grateful that he had kept from Sherlock. His gun sat warm and heavy in the inside pocket on the left hand side and he hardly registered removing it from its resting place.

"No," Sherlock's tone was unsympathetic, "you couldn't."

John had the gun in his hand and he didn't mean to shoot. He was just going to reveal himself as a warning but it turns out his reflexes are just slightly quicker than Sherlock's. As the man panicked and lunged for Sherlock, John was there in a heartbeat. And in another the man was on the floor, clutching his leg as blood ran from a bullet shaped hole. Sherlock spun round, his eyes growing wide when he realised the shot came from the direction of the purple and steel gray flecked eyes of John Watson.

John was not panting, he was not in shock. For the first time in a long time all he registered was adrenaline as he calmly lowered the gun, replacing it inside his leather jacket. Neither he nor Sherlock paid much attention to the man now whimpering on the floor as their gazes locked and froze, although John's detached mind did notice the crazy flickering of his eyes as a storm of emotions battled for dominance. A sign of psychosis, his medical knowledge informed him.

"Police will be here soon." He said evenly to Sherlock who stared back at him, eyes narrowed and expression momentarily indecipherable, before it relaxed into a small smile.

"Good shot."

"Thanks."

The two men stood staring at each other for a moment until the sound of police sirens broke the atmosphere in two and Sherlock sighed.

"I suppose that's our cue. Give me the gun."

"Absolutely not." John was firm and without hesitation, Sherlock's order brought him back to reality harshly. "I won't let you do that."

Sherlock sighed impatiently and strode closer, grasping John by his upper arms.

"Do you trust me John?" Was his proximity going to continue to be this overwhelming, John wondered. He stared at Sherlock's eyes as they flickered and roamed over his own face.

"Yes." He was surprised at the surety in which he spoke. He absolutely trusted this crazy, beautiful man whom he had known for less than a day.

"Good." Sherlock murmured, perceptively closer. John tried very hard not to be affected as Sherlock's hand slid from his arm to his chest before slowly slipping inside his jacket. Quickly he pulled away from John as Lestrade rounded the corner, grasping the offending weapon in his hand. Lestrade took one look at the man on the floor and rounded on the two standing.

"Oh for Christ's sake, Sherlock!"

"Self-defence, Lestrade." Sherlock said serenely, holding up his hands in surrender and gesturing to the knife on the ground.

The two officers that had followed Lestrade barely blinked before rounding on the injured man cuffing him, rights being read in the same manner as a textbook. Sherlock stashed the gun and made to leave but Lestrade help up an annoyed hand, red spots flashing in his eyes.

"Hold on, I'm not sure where you think you're going but I need statements off you. Both of you." He clarified shooting John a look, who nodded.

"And Sherlock," he turned back to the man red disappearing whilst white reappeared in full force. "I'm sorry, but I've got to at least take you in for questioning, you bloody shot someone! I mean, where did you even get a gun?!" Lestrade may have loved his job, but there were permanent bags under his eyes that John had to resist the urge to medicate with eight hours of hard rest.

"Perfectly alright," Sherlock ignored the question and shot a wink to John who had just been about to open his mouth to protest. He shut it again with a snap.

"Police car, Sherlock?" Lestrade asked. "You too...John was it?"

No one noticed the portly figure at the end of the alleyway until a throat clear sounded and a well groomed voice drawled:

"I hardly think that will be necessary."

* * *

"Mycroft." Sherlock and Lestrade spoke simultaneously with venom in their voices. John turned to observe the man now walking towards them with curiosity.

Inexplicably for a dry London day, he carried an umbrella and an air of importance. Thinning auburn hair lifted slightly in the breeze and the man's eyes were a puzzling mix of gray's, green, brown and blue. Overall he radiated a calm smugness that instantly prickled at John's skin.

"Can't you keep your nose out of anything, Mycroft?" Sherlock asked with disgust.

"Don't flatter yourself," the man smiled pleasantly poisonously. "I came here to see Dr. Watson." Those eyes had more green, more intelligence than John had ever seen before but it was not that he focussed on upon hearing his name.

"Me?" He asked, "why me?"

He was afforded an oily smile before Mycroft glanced at Lestrade.

"That being said of course, Detective Inspector," he continued as though John had not spoken. "Any paperwork filed incriminating Sherlock Holmes in any way will of course vanish before anything can be done with it." He leaned closer to the police officer with a smirk. "I suggest you save yourself the trouble."

"Can't you go and stick your fat nose in elsewhere?" Sherlock said in exasperation ignoring the now seething Lestrade stood next to him, "don't you have Japan to bother?"

The animosity between the three men was extraordinary and completely lost on John, who had no idea what to make of the cryptic conversation.

"Look, mate" he tried to get Mycroft's attention instead. "I think you better go, yeah? Everything is under control here."

Mycroft's eyes widened in surprise before he let out a short, low chuckle that John was sure was directed at him. Red spots began to appear so he matched Lestrade in appearance, unsure why this slippery mans mirth infuriated him so.

"Oh, I see why you like him, brother dear." Mycroft said, turning to Sherlock who bristled. "Loyal already, I see." John's anger did not survive his surprise; did this Mycroft just say he was Sherlock's brother? The resemblance was non-existent in all but the mutual hard set expressions on each of the siblings faces.

"I think it's time you and I had a little chat, Dr." Mycroft addressed him once again, eyes unfathomable despite the emotions played across them.

"Go with him John." Sherlock instructed, rolling his eyes. "He won't leave either of us alone until you do." John considered protesting until he caught Sherlock's eye and the earlier words rumbled through his memory; 'do you trust me John?'

He nodded reluctantly. "Fine."

"Excellent." Mycroft was brisk, "Lestrade, it's a pleasure as always" he said drily to the Inspector who grimaced in response. "Shall we?" He glance at John before starting to walk towards the alleyway exit. John looked at Sherlock whose expression was marble, he thought he saw the bob of the other man's adams apple as he swallowed.

"I'll meet you at Baker Street later." He muttered, John gave him a short nod and he smiled. "My statement, Lestrade?" He turned to the Inspector, who nodded.

"Before I forget Dr. Watson," Lestrade turned to address him.

"John, please."

"John then." He smiled, "you left this at the crime scene." Lestrade held out an object John had failed to notice the older man carrying. In silence he took his cane back from Lestrade. He hadn't even noticed it was missing.


	5. Chapter 5

Much as it had been with Sherlock, John could tell instantly that Mycroft was something new. Highly intelligent yes, but there was also something unreadable about his eyes. This was of course peculiar, Mycroft's emotions shone through like anyone else's, anyone but Sherlock's, and yet John had the distinct feeling Mycroft had learnt to control this to an extent, although that should be impossible.

He hadn't been in a Sedan before and despite the circumstances he took a moment to appreciate the sleek comfortable, leather seats before acknowledging the man who had demanded his presence.

"So?" John asked.

Mycroft raised an eyebrow, "yes Dr. Watson?"

"I presume you brought me here for a reason," he tapped his foot impatiently. "Please, enlighten me."

Mycroft looked amused. "I can see why my brother likes you."

John made a non-committal noise in the back of his throat, aware the pink in his eyes had grown during the past hour.

"My point, Dr. Watson, is that you and my brother appear to have grown remarkably close in the last, say...twenty-four hours?"

"I really don't see how that's any of your business." Humans don't normally notice flashes of brief emotion, generally they're programmed to pay attention to the more steadfast colours in order to understand another's psyche. Mycroft, however, was highly trained and didn't miss the flash of defiance that momentarily cut through John's flecked irises.

"My brother is," Mycroft twirled his umbrella thoughtfully, pausing, "unusual. There are a lot of people who are interested in his lack of human emotion."

John smiled slightly. "I don't for one second believe that Sherlock is emotionless."

The car had yet to start moving and John was understanding less and less the motive behind Mycroft's bizarre interrogation, there was concern deep in the mixture of colours but John had a sneaking suspicion the reason for this discussion went beyond sibling concern.

"If you do intend to live with my brother I can ensure you are very comfortable." The silken drawl that Mycroft had perfected was a tool to coax John in. "A small sum, perhaps?"

"For what?" He felt something in the pit of his stomach, a gnawing sensation of anger beginning to simmer slowly beneath the surface, he tried not to ponder over why he felt disgust at someone trying to control Sherlock.

"Just to let me know what he's doing, when he's doing it."

"No." John didn't have to think. "Absolutely not."

The car had started to move, whether this was part of Mycroft's tactic he wasn't sure, but it did nothing to weaken his resolve, he wasn't afraid of the elder Holmes brother and Captain John Watson had never taken kindly to bribes.

Mycroft hid his surprise well, "you're very loyal, very quickly."

"No, I'm not, I'm just not interested." John's mildness as he said this only served to interest Mycroft further, this man was truly something extraordinary. They sat in a silence deemed by one to be awkward and the other fascinating, until the car slowed to a halt.

"Very well, Dr. Watson, I'm sure we'll speak again soon." John grimaced, he was sure he would do everything in his power to avoid that unpleasant notion. Mycroft oozed a smile towards him.

"221B Baker Street I believe."

John traipsed up the stairs of 221B, briefly marvelling at the lack of pain in his leg, before pushing the door open to what he now presumed, was his new flat. Sherlock wasn't back yet, not that John had expected him to be considering Lestrade's adamant insistence for a statement earlier, so he took the opportunity to properly survey his new home.

Examining the kitchen he grimaced, somehow he had a feeling the cluttered kitchen and - oh god were those fingers - were regular states of affair. He knew it was irrational and stupid, but he couldn't help the faint fondness and first tingles of excitement that went through him when he thought of living here. God he'd known the man less than a day and in that time had managed to visit a murder scene, shoot a criminal and get kidnapped by a crazy big brother.

And in the middle of that kitchen, totally alone, he burst out laughing. A few minutes later when his mirth had subsided he shook his head, still chuckling, and strode over to the seat he had already subconsciously dubbed as "mine", settling himself in it comfortably and picked up the newspaper.

Barely twenty minutes had passed before he heard the telltale thump of the door opening and someone swiftly moving up the stairs. Looking up from the paper he saw Sherlock paused in the doorway, in the process of pulling off one of his black leather gloves, pale eyes inscrutable.

"John" he finally said, he sounded pleased but his expression was impassive. "Tell me, how is my dear older brother?" John huffed a laugh, he should have known Sherlock would just assume he had moved in, no questions asked.

"Your brother," he said calmly, flipping the page in the newspaper "is an arse."

Sherlock snorted before pulling off his coat and remaining glove and striding over to the sofa and flopping onto it in a move that was mildly melodramatic; John stifled the urge to snort.

"That is the prevailing opinion. Did he offer you money?"

"Yes." John had decided against lying to Sherlock, he was pretty sure he would know if he tried anyway.

Eyes snapped over to him but Sherlock's face remained impassive. "Did you take it?"

"What, no?" John's reaction was immediate.

"Pity. We could have split it, think it through next time." Sherlock settled back into the sofa, fingertips pressed together deep in thought, but the silence was not uncomfortable. It was natural, John marvelled. He was unaccustomed to feeling this naturally comfortable with anyone since the war had ended for him, but Sherlock seemed unaffected by his unwillingness to make eye contact and he suspected, had little interest in the colours that shrouded his irises.

"So this is what you do is it?" John broke the calm. "Solve crimes, risk your life to prove you're clever?"

After a beat of silence Sherlock stretched languorously on the sofa, reminding John of an overgrown house cat. "Problem?"

"Oh God no."

The two men looked at each other and grinned.


End file.
